


I take it you have never read John Polidori's novella...

by StarsHideYourFires



Series: What If... [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1880s, Gen, Ripper Murders, Vampire Hunter, Vampires, dubious use of medical terminology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsHideYourFires/pseuds/StarsHideYourFires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dr. John Watson returns to London from service in India, he visits his old friend Lestrade, who is very much in need of his medical opinion. But on his way from the train station he runs into a mysterious man offering him a job, and all too quickly he finds himself pulled into an adventure he never expected, nor even believed was possible.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>“Doctor Watson, I told you I would find you.” He stepped further into the room, greeting Lestrade as well before adding, “And it appears that you have wandered into the middle of my case.”</p>
<p>“It would appear that way, yes,” Watson said, feeling suddenly hot under his collar as he tugged at his tie. “Or rather,” he continued, his voice hoarse as though choked, “Your case is also my case.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I take it you have never read John Polidori's novella...

**London, 1888**

**  
**

Doctor John Watson stepped out of the train carriage and onto the platform as a harsh November wind attempted to steal his bowler hat. Gripping the brim firmly, Doctor Watson strode across the platform and hurried to find a hansom cab. Just as he reached the road, ready to hail a cab, a tall man wearing a long, black duster cut him off.

“You are a doctor, correct?” the man said, only the faintest hint of a question in his statement.

“Well, yes,” Watson replied. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“Most assuredly not, but I know a medical case when I see one,” he said gesturing to the doctor’s bag. “Now, Doctor…”

“Watson.”

“Doctor Watson,” the man said as he fiddled with the silver chain of his watch, “I find myself in the need of a medical expert currently. Would you be at all interested in the work?” He raised a single, dark eyebrow as the rest of his face held its blank expression.

“What kind of work would I be doing, Mister…?” Watson asked.

“Holmes,” the man supplied. “It would consist primarily of physical examinations. I am working a case and several of the victims appear to suffer from anemia. It would be most helpful to have you come and give your expert diagnosis. Of course, you will be compensated for your efforts.”

“I am actually expected by friends at the moment, and I really must go to meet them now, but if I could get an address at which to reach you, I’ll call as soon as I am able,” Watson said, an apologetic smile on his face.

“Not to worry, Doctor Watson,” said Holmes, “I’ll find you. Just keep your eyes open; you may notice something interesting.” With a tip of his hat, Holmes bowed and turned, striding away with such purpose that Watson found it difficult to look away.

Just then, a cab pulled to a stop, and Watson hurried to acquire it, giving the cabbie the Lestrades’ address and ruminating on the strange man he just met.

Upon arriving at the townhouse, Watson was greeted by a dark-eyed maid and ushered in to the drawing room where Mrs. Lestrade waited for him. “Ah, Doctor Watson,” she said, “Mr. Lestrade will be so happy you’ve arrived. I’ve already sent Thomas to fetch him, he should be here shortly.” She beamed at him, gliding across the room to meet him and offer her hand.

Watson bent down to brush his lips to the back of her glove. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Lestrade, an absolute pleasure. You’ve been well?” Watson finished with a questioning look as he finally released her hand.

She nodded, her gaze demurely downcast as she spoke, “Yes, I’ve been very well, but our eldest, Edith, has been feeling poorly recently. She’s just been so weak these past weeks and you know how a mother worries.” She gave him a weaker smile then, before turning at the soft clack of hard-soled shoes making their way in from the hallway. “Gregory, Darling, Doctor Watson has arrived.”

“I can see that, Mary,” Lestrade said as he stepped into the room. He first went to kiss his wife on the cheek before crossing to Watson and clapping him on the shoulder as he shook his hand. “Watson, my friend, it has been far too long.”

“We’ve both been busy,” Watson said with a smile.

“Yes, I know, and you’ve been abroad, but six years is much too long a time to go without seeing a friend. How was India, by the way?” Lestrade asked as he motioned for Watson to take a seat. The two men settled into a pair of armchairs while Mrs. Lestrade excused herself to check on Edith as she slipped out of the room. “So,” Lestrade repeated his query, “India?”

“It’s a beautiful place, hot and bright; I miss it, but it is very good to be home.” Watson shifted closer as he asked, “Now what was it that you summoned me for, Lestrade? Your telegram seemed most urgent. I only hope I can be of help.”

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There have been some very strange goings-on here these past three months. London is in an uproar because of the murders in Whitechapel.”

“Yes, I had read about those; ghastly business,” Watson muttered when Lestrade paused. “Those poor women, absolutely dreadful.”

“I know, and that’s not all. I worry for Mary and the children, of course, to think that butcher is still wandering the streets of London… But, additionally some kind of illness seems to be plaguing many of the young ladies in the area.” Lestrade’s hushed voice carried throughout the large drawing room, setting Watson’s teeth on edge. “As you already know, Edith has been quite ill, as have several of her friends and acquaintances. Even some of Mary’s circle have taken ill, unable to leave their beds much of the time because they are so weak.” He shook his head minutely back and forth as he pursed his lips. “We’ve had doctors in to check on her, but none of them have a solid diagnosis. You were always top of our year at school; I hoped that my friend John might be able to pick up on something the others missed.”

“I’ll do my best, Greg,” Watson answered softly as he stood. “Why don’t you take me to see the patient?” he added a bit more amiably.

“Of course, Watson, of course,” Lestrade said as he pushed himself to his feet.

Suddenly, the chime of the doorbell rang out and a few moments later the maid entered saying, “There’s a Mr. Holmes here to see you, sir.”

“Show him in,” Lestrade answered, turning to Watson as the maid retreated to the front hall, “This is rather convenient, Watson. now you will get to meet Mr. Holmes. He is a consultant who is offering his services to any of the families of those afflicted with this strange illness. He believes he may know the cause, but he’s remained rather quiet about it all. So far, I think I’m the only one foolish enough to take him up on the offer. Perhaps you’ll know whether his services are worth my time.”

Watson nodded, his eyes vacant as he only halfway listened to his friend. He gasped half in surprise and half in awe when the tall, dark-haired man from the train station entered the drawing room. Holmes flashed him a cheeky grin before saying, “Doctor Watson, I told you I would find you.” He stepped further into the room, greeting Lestrade as well before adding, “And it appears that you have wandered into the middle of my case.”

“It would appear that way, yes,” Watson said, feeling suddenly hot under his collar as he tugged at his tie. “Or rather,” he continued, his voice hoarse as though choked, “Your case is also my case.”

Lestrade had let his mouth gape open as he looked between the two men. “Watson, how on earth do you know Mr. Holmes?” he asked, clearly dumbfounded.

Watson opened his mouth to speak but Holmes cut him off with a simple, “I happened to come across Doctor Watson when I went to the train station this morning. We exchanged words, and although I did not know he was the doctor you had called in to aid in diagnosing your daughter’s illness, I offered him a position in assisting me with the medical side of this case.” Then he continued on his way across the room towards the door leading to the rest of the house. “Shall we see the patient, then?” Holmes asked, a jovial smile gracing his features that even Watson could see was out of place.

Lestrade and Watson followed Holmes out of the drawing room, with Lestrade quickly overtaking the taller man and leading them up the stairs to a dimly lit bedroom. Inside, Mrs. Lestrade sat on the edge of a four poster bed, her back to the door and completely blocking the inhabitant of the bed from view. “Darling,” Lestrade said prompting his wife to turn her head toward the door, “Doctor Watson and Mr. Holmes are here to see Edith. How is she doing?”

“She’s awake now, but her chills are worse than they were yesterday,” Mrs. Lestrade answered. Slowly, she stood and stepped away from the bed revealing a wan, pale face, with sunken eyes and messy, dark hair.

Watson stepped forward, remembering the vivacious child who had tittered as she asked him questions about blood and injuries, and various infectious diseases while they drank tea and waited for more of the guests to arrive at the Lestrades’ annual Christmas party. “Hello, Edith,” he said as he approached the bed, “I’m Doctor Watson, do you remember me? I know it’s been quite a few years since I have been able to attend any of your parents’ gatherings…”

“Of course I remember you, Doctor Watson,” she answered in a soft voice as a weak smile grew upon her lips, “Father was absolutely incensed that you had told me about that amputation you did. He insisted I would have nightmares.” A tiny laugh slipped from her throat. “I think he is more afraid I’ll try to become a doctor too.” She paused for a moment while she tried to calm her wheezing breaths. “So, you’ve come to try your hand at diagnosing my illness? Many have tried, I wish you luck, Doctor Watson.” With this she gave him a weak, joking salute and let herself rest.

“I shall do my best, Miss Lestrade,” Watson said as he leaned over the bed, pressing a practiced hand to her forehead, which felt clammy, almost too cold when he had expected a fever. Then he shifted his hand, asking Edith to present her wrist, and with a slow, labored movement she produced it. Watson gripped it delicately, placing two fingers against the radial artery and counted: forty seven beats per minute. “That is quite troublesome,” he muttered to himself before turning to face the Lestrades, “Have any of the other doctors diagnosed bradycardia, or is this a new symptom?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Mrs. Lestrade asked.

“Bradycardia, or abnormally slow heart rate,” Holmes said, finally moving into the room. “I don’t believe any of the other physicians have noted it, but that may just have been them writing it off as a weak patient spending too much time at rest.” He seated himself in a low chair in the corner of the room as he continued to watch the doctor quite intently.

“Well, I’d say that her heart rate, coupled with low body temperature, general weakness, and her extreme pallor, would lead me to call this blood loss, maybe some form of anemia, but I’ve only seen reactions like this in patients who have lost quite a lot of blood.”

“Doctor Watson, you’re the first one to catch it,” Holmes said, a warm grin on his face. “What else do you observe?”

Watson continued to look over the patient, her breathing slowing as she began to fade from consciousness. His eyes caught on a mild discoloration just below her jaw which he reached out to probe with his index finger. He could feel the slightest swelling and several micro-lacerations, so small and light they were nearly invisible. When Watson pointed this out to Holmes the taller man’s smile grew more pointed. “And there you have it, Doctor. The one sign all the others missed; the one thing that truly tells us what we are dealing with here. The one thing no one is ever willing to believe,” he said as he stood to cross to the bed and look at Edith’s neck himself. “But you have seen the physical evidence for yourself, so why shouldn’t you believe it?” he half-mumbled to himself.

“Why shouldn’t I believe what, Mr. Holmes?” Watson asked as he glanced around the room. The Lestrades had huddled by the door, identical looks of confusion on their faces. Turning his attention back to the strange consultant, Watson added, “I’m still not quite certain that I am following your reasoning.”

“Then I take it you have never read John Polidori’s novella,” Holmes said. “Pity, it would have saved so much time in explaining—”

“Vampires,” Watson exclaimed, “You’re saying this is the work of vampires?” He took a step back from Holmes. “No, it’s just not possible.”

“It is very possible, Doctor Watson, very possible indeed,” Holmes said as he undid his necktie and pulled down his collar, revealing a thin, jagged scar running along his sternomastoid muscle, ghosting above the carotid artery. “I can very much assure you that we are dealing with the work of at least one vampire, if not more.”

Watson stepped forward to examine the scar more closely, knowing that Holmes was quite lucky to be alive after being wounded in such a place, even luckier that it had healed so well. His hand reached forward to touch the hard tissue but he remembered himself and pulled it back to his side as he watched Holmes return his tie to its rightful position.

Lestrade spoke out, having finally regained his composure, “Mr. Holmes, are you implying that my daughter has been gallivanting with vampires? Because I can assure you that she hasn’t been out of bed in weeks.”

“It is very possible that she has no idea she’s ever been attacked. And although we love to think we can determine a man’s character by looking at him it is never that simple. Our vampire could be practically anyone and there are very few ways to tell.” Holmes pursed his lips as he looked down at Edith again, her lungs gently rising and falling with each breath. “Based on the number of current victims I’d assume we have at least two working together. The Whitechapel murders point me towards another, likely connected to the others but feeding outside of their jurisdiction.”

“But aren’t vampires supposed to kill their victims? There haven’t been any fatalities amongst Edith’s friends yet, have there?” Watson asked, dividing his attention between Lestrade and Holmes.

“No,” Lestrade said, “I would have told you immediately had that been the case.” At this, Mrs. Lestrade turned to her husband and whispered to him. “Now, gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind moving this discussion to my study, my wife would like to let Edith rest.”

“Yes, of course,” Watson said as he followed the Lestrades from the room, Holmes at his heels. The three men found themselves alone in the study when Mrs. Lestrade excused herself. Watson settled into a plush armchair while Holmes practically sprawled across the davenport by the window; Lestrade paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. After several minutes in silence Watson cleared his throat to get the attention of the other men and asked, “What do we do, then? How does one go about dealing with a vampire feeding on the young ladies of London?”

“We have to approach this carefully,” Holmes said. “With more than one vampire out there, we run the risk of retaliation if we do not eliminate them all at once. The most important question you can answer for me right now Mr. Lestrade is whether anyone new has joined your social circle recently? Any new gentlemen just moved into town or recently come into a murky inheritance?”

Lestrade wrung his hands in thought before he spoke, “There have been a few within the past couple months, but the most recent is Mr. James Moriarty. His family just bought a house in town a month ago and he and his personal… physician, aide, something, a Mr. Moran had just begun attending our social functions then.

“They are the ones we will have to investigate then,” Holmes said, steepling his hands in front of his face in thought. “When will you next see them?”

“The next one will probably be the engagement party next week,” Lestrade answered, his right hand gripping at the mantle as he leaned against the wall, his face flushed and grimacing. “His engagement party.”

“They do tend toward the dramatic,” Holmes said. “We will have to accompany you and Mrs. Lestrade there. I’m sure that won’t attract too much attention…”

“Everyone certainly would expect Doctor Watson, as I’m sure the entirety of our social circle knows I’m having an old friend stay with me. You may be more conspicuous, Mr. Holmes. I fear people will be suspicious of the man who has been offering his services to the families of those stricken with Edith’s ‘illness,’” Lestrade said while Watson stood and moved to the bottle of brandy Lestrade kept on his desk and poured out three glasses. “Thank you, John,” Lestrade said as the doctor brought him a glass. He quickly tipped back the contents, letting it slide warmly down his throat.

Holmes refused the brandy Watson offered him, “Slows the mind,” he said before adding, “I doubt anyone will find my presence all that odd if you present me as Doctor Watson’s secretary; an army doctor recently returned from India could hardly be faulted for having someone help to transcribe his memoirs. That and I have only offered my services, so far, to your family, Mr. Lestrade. I felt you and your wife would be more receptive to me if it sounded like I was a concerned citizen looking into the matter, especially after you asked who else I had spoken with upon our first meeting.” He paused for a moment, watching as Lestrade strode over to the third glass of brandy which Watson had left on the desk and downed it in one swallow.

“I knew you were the only one to truly question the diagnosis of anemia, Lestrade; you were, in fact, the only family to call upon more than one doctor,” Holmes said. Shifting himself into a more upright position, he smiled at the befuddled looks he received from his two companions. “Oh, come now, servants gossip when they see each other, it makes it rather simple to find out who is coming and going in the homes of the more well-to-do if one knows where to look.”

“So you picked Lestrade out as the one most likely to help you,” Watson said, his left eyebrow quirked upward. He perched himself upon his armchair again, staring at the strange consultant as he did.

“One can never be too careful in picking an ally when a vampire is involved,” Holmes said as he pushed himself to his feet. His right hand clutched at his silver watch chain again before he finally pulled the device from his pocket and rubbed his thumb against its face. “Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have some preparations to make before the day is over.” Holmes replaced the watch in his waistcoat pocket as he made his way for the study door. “Pleasure meeting you, Doctor Watson,” he said as he exited the room.

“And you as well, Holmes” Watson called after the tall man. Lestrade, still standing beside his desk and the bottle of brandy, filled another glass and brought it to Watson. The doctor accepted the glass with a nod. “Well, Greg,” he said, rather cheerily, “Today has been quite odd, hasn’t it.”

“Indeed,” Lestrade answered, distress painted across his features.

 

\--

 

That next week, Watson found himself in the Lestrades’ parlor with Holmes and a great array of rather medieval-looking weaponry. He grasped a large, iron nail, nearly as long as a railroad spike and asked, “What’s all this for, then?” as he twirled the nail between his thumb and forefinger, “Do you really expect us to kill this bloke at his engagement do?”

“If the opportunity presents itself I would like to be able to take it,” Holmes said tersely as he plucked the nail out of Watson’s grasp. “And we likely won’t be using the nails; they’re a better option when we come across the vampire while he rests, or in the case of a freshly killed victim, to ensure they do not rise. An iron nail through the eye of a vampire is one of the best ways to keep it in its coffin. Iron is important, pay attention to where it is because it could save your life.” He laid the nail back on the table after examining it.

“But, I thought iron was supposed to repel fairies… Please tell me fairies aren’t real, too,” Watson said. His hands clenched into fists as he stared at Holmes and held his breath.

“No, Watson, fairies are not real,” Holmes said with the slightest roll of his eyes, “At least not the kind you’re thinking of; there are many powerful and inexplicable creatures in nature, but they are not tiny humanoids with wings.” Holmes gave a light chuckle as he picked up a wooden stake. “But belief plays an important role in the world of the supernatural. To believe in something—just as happens with politics and cultural norms—gives it power. Cold iron has long been believed to harm fairies, ghosts, witches, and the like, that belief ends up transferring to other supernatural forces and beings, eventually it repels vampires too. It’s the same reason consecrated ground and blessed objects work against them as well.” Holmes tossed the stake from hand to hand, finally gripping it as though he were about to plunge its tip into the table. “Plenty of other apotropaic objects too, garlic, lemon, hawthorn, ash, oak, prayers, mirrors…”

“So that’s why you have a crucifix on?” Watson asked, still confused. “And the silver, does that matter?”

“I’m surprised you picked up on that, Watson, very good,” Holmes said as he set down the stake. He then pulled his watch from its pocket and placed the silver timepiece in Watson’s hand. “Silver has taken on many of the same properties as iron. It won’t flat out kill a vampire but it will burn him. And the crucifix isn’t important so much as the fact that it has been blessed by a priest. Scientifically, I can’t explain that, but it really seems to have an almost complete basis in belief and folklore.”

Watson turned over the watch in his palm before handing it back to Holmes, his expression stern and stolid as he met the other man’s eyes. They stood in a companionable silence for several moments until Watson finally turned his attention back to the table and asked, “How much of this were you planning on bringing tonight?”

“Oh, I already have my standard wards and weapons on me. These are for you,” he said as he put the iron nail and a slim silver blade into Watson’s hands. He also gave him a small flask of holy water. “That should be good for tonight, since I’m really only hoping for a reconnaissance trip tonight,” here Holmes touched Watson’s hand, prompting the shorter man to look up into his steel grey eyes, “Just remember, Watson, do not let yourself be left alone with either Moriarty or Moran. While vampires tend to prey upon the opposite sex, it could still be very dangerous.” He pulled his hand back, letting his arm fall against his side.

Holmes then pulled out his pipe and set about the business of filling it from his tobacco pouch and lighting it as he turned away from Watson and strolled over to the widow as he puffed on the pipe. “Besides, as I said, I would like you to speak with the families of the other affected ladies,” he said pensively.

“Why would they want to talk to me, Holmes?” Watson said, making his way toward the widow.

“Because you are a competent doctor and old school friend of Lestrade’s. They’ll love to get your expert medical opinion, Watson,” Holmes said with a smile. “Also, you have a very open face, it draws people in, invites them to tell you their secrets,” he turned to see Watson gaping at him, “Really, you never noticed it? Even Lestrade is more willing to tell me things simply because you are in the room. It’s really quite fascinating.” Holmes returned his pipe to the corner of his mouth. Then he glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “We had better go get ready to leave.” Without another glance at Watson, Holmes strode across the room and exited, down the hall towards the front door. Watson gazed at the weaponry on the table for a moment before grasping the smooth hawthorn stake Holmes had shown him, and placing it inside his jacket before rushing to catch up with the strange vampire hunter.

 

\--

 

The Lestrades, along with Watson and Holmes, arrived at the Hooper residence at precisely seven o’clock; after being ushered into the parlor they found themselves immediately set upon by several guests—mostly women—who were intrigued by the unknowns accompanying Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade. Introductions were made with Watson doing his best to appear relaxed and Holmes easily hiding his disinterest.

Watson soon found himself being escorted to a sofa and surrounded by a number of middle aged women tittering at him alternately about their minor aches and ailments, and the strange sickness affecting their daughters and nieces. As he listened and responded he cast several discreet glances around the room in order to keep tabs on Holmes who was speaking quite animatedly with an older gentleman in possession of a remarkable snow white moustache. When one of the ladies caught him at it she said, “Oh, I see your friend had made the acquaintance of Mr. Hooper.” The mustached man began gesturing wildly at Holmes as he smiled before releasing a hearty laugh. “I’ve never seen anyone get along so easily with Mr. Hooper,” the woman said, a look of surprised on her face.

“Holmes is an interesting man,” Watson said by way of explanation. “He often does what one least expects.”

The woman—Watson believed her name was Mrs. Turner—nodded before asking, “How did you come across Mr. Holmes? He seems an odd choice for a secretary.”

“Old family friends: he has quite the way with words, so upon my discharge from the army I knew he would be the man to go to for help in writing my memoirs,” Watson said, the lie coming naturally after all the times Holmes had made him practice it. The ladies all tittered over this information as they smiled at the doctor; he could practically feel them thinking, ‘ _Oh, he’s a doctor, and an army doctor at that, and still quite young, I have just the girl for him,_ ’ and he didn’t know if he would be able to stand it much longer.

“Well now,” he started, interrupting their matchmaking thoughts, “When do we get to see the happy couple?”

“Oh, very soon,” Mrs. Turner said, “They are to make their entrance just before dinner. It should be splendid.” This then set the women tittering about the sweet Miss Molly Hooper and her luck at nabbing so eligible a beau so quickly, and how lovely the wedding would be and, ‘Oh, won’t the children just be beautiful with her nose and his lips, and their coloring is so complimentary.’ Watson let himself listen, absorbing as much of the conversation as he could but knowing it was far less than Holmes would have retained.

Soon he heard a smooth voice from the corner, “Presenting Mister James Moriarty and Miss Mary Hooper,” and everyone stood to watch as a handsome, raven-haired young man descended from the top of the stairs with a pretty brunette on his arm. Her dress was the same pale pink as the flush of her cheeks and she smiled brightly, all her attention focused upon him: Moriarty.

When they reached the foot of the stairs, Moriarty stopped and opened his mouth to speak, “Friends, thank you so much for coming to our party and celebrating with us. My dear, sweet Molly and I couldn’t be happier and we are so glad to share our joy with all of you.” He smiled in a way that made Watson think of fairy tale illustrations of wolves, his teeth just a little too sharp. Then Watson caught Holmes’s eye and inclined his head slightly towards the happy couple; Holmes nodded discreetly as he toyed with his watch chain. Then dinner was announced and the party moved from the parlor to the dining room.

Watson found himself seated near the head of the table, not too far from Miss Hooper, and Mrs. Lestrade at his right, but Mr. Lestrade, Holmes, and Moriarty were all quite far away. So, instead he listened to the young lady speak of her fiancé, and how he had swept her off her feet when all the other girls had been fawning over him and he had eyes only for her. “He was just so gentlemanly,” she said, “And he is so well read! We talk of literature, history, music, geography, anything and everything. It is so wonderful. My dear Jim, I really am the luckiest girl I know.” Finally she blushed, realizing she had monopolized the conversation mooning like a schoolgirl with a crush, and began asking about her dining companions, and when she came to Watson he revealed that he was recently in India with the army, which turned all attention back onto him.

“No, really, I’m just a simple army doctor. Didn’t even see any action while I was there, very dull business really. And tonight isn’t about me; I’m sure that you will all get plenty of me with the Lestrades this season,” Watson said as he tried to deflect the conversation. The pudding was brought in then, and everyone admired the lovely presentation the Hooper’s cook had given them, with artfully placed berries and curls of chocolate. Watson had never seen anything so decadent or delicate that he was supposed to eat.

After dinner, when the gentlemen had adjourned to Mr. Hooper’s study for drinks, Watson had settled on a sofa next to Lestrade, and Holmes leaned down next to him and whispered in his ear, “Excuse yourself in five minutes and meet me in the hall,” before announcing that he needed a spot of air and would return shortly. Watson patiently waited five minutes, finishing his scotch before giving his own reason for leaving and finding Holmes in the hallway. The taller man grabbed him by the hand and led him to a small, disused alcove where he said, “Moriarty is definitely our man. He’s very good at playing human, but he didn’t actually eat anything tonight, just pushed it very artfully around his plate and kept conversation going enough to prevent his actually putting anything in his mouth. Vampire’s can eat as we do, but it offers no sustenance and tastes of nothing, so they tend to avoid it. And he flinched away from the silver candle holder that his hand accidentally grazed and the skin that had touched it was quite red. It’s the only explanation.” His grey eyes gleamed as he spoke, a few stray curls escaping from his pomade-styled coif as he gesticulated wildly.

“And our Miss Molly has the same light bruising on her neck. It’s very faint and difficult to see, but it is very much there,” Watson added. At this remark Holmes smiled even more broadly before grasping Watson’s face and pressing an ecstatic kiss quickly to his temple and exclaiming over his brilliance. Watson simply beamed in return. “So, what do we do now?” Watson asked.

“We wait, find an opportunity to meet with Moriarty and his man, Moran,” Holmes answered. “It’s the only way to do it, otherwise Moran will run, and I’m willing to bet he’ll be far more dangerous if Moriarty isn’t there to rein him in.” Then he realized Watson’s face was still between his hands and dropped them sheepishly to his sides. “You had better head back now, I’ll be along shortly and then we can try to get Moriarty to agree to a meeting.”

“Yes, of course,” Watson answered, his cheeks a little flushed as he turned to walk back to the study. Once there, Lestrade clapped him on the back and quickly integrated the doctor back into the evening’s conversation. Mr. Hooper was telling them all about a strike that had just resolved at his factory and the difficulty of allowing unions. Watson kept his mouth shut on the subject, knowing that his own beliefs about fair wages and working conditions in factories would not be appreciated by the businessmen in the room. Instead he let the conversation drift around him, accepting another drink from Hooper when it was offered and waiting for Holmes to return. His tall “secretary” did eventually stroll back in, saying that he’d gotten himself turned around on his way back and had fortunately stumbled upon a kind maid who pointed him back in the right direction. The others laughed, including Moriarty, but Watson felt uneasy, suddenly worried that someone would catch them in their sneaking.

Holmes settled himself next to Watson on the sofa as he pulled out his pipe and went about the business of filling and lighting it. Conversation quickly returned to monetary ventures before drifting to Moriarty’s engagement, with several not-so-savory jokes being made about the comely young Miss Molly, her father feigning a complete lack of understanding as he laughed to himself. A few quick toasts were made, all of them now edging toward drunkenness, except for Holmes, who had abstained from alcohol, Watson, who was only on his second drink since supper, and Moriarty, who held a glass of scotch but had yet to actually consume any of its contents. Then, while the others were boisterously congratulating the bridegroom before the rather squirrely Mr. Anderson began singing and most of the men joined in, Holmes saw their opportunity and took it, leading Watson with a short nod over to the window where Moriarty had edged himself.

“Mr. Moriarty,” Holmes said, “I’m not sure if you’ve gotten to meet my employer, Doctor John Watson, lately of Her Majesty’s Army.”

“No, we have not met, yet; not formally,” Moriarty said with a grin. “A pleasure, Doctor Watson,” he said as he shook the doctor’s hand.

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Moriarty,” Watson said, hoping his eyes did not give away the unease he felt upon grasping that cold hand. “I just wanted to extend my own congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, and I was curious if you were interested in a business proposition I have.”

“Go on,” Moriarty said, gesturing to his right rather noncommittally.

“I don’t have all the details now, but I thought a young man such as yourself might be interested to get in on the ground floor, have the chance to increase his coffers before getting married.” Watson held a vaguely neutral smile on his face. Holmes, who had stepped back allowing Watson to take control of the discussion and trusting his partner to handle the set up, let his arm press against the doctor’s, hoping to embolden him enough to finish. He knew that just being in the presence of a vampire was unnerving, especially when one was attempting not to let on that one knew he was a vampire.

Watson cleared his throat as he continued, “I was wondering if perhaps you would like to set up a meeting for later in the week so we could discuss it.”

Moriarty smiled, “I’d be quite interested, Doctor.”

 

\--

 

A week later, Watson found himself following Holmes down a busy street at sunset until they stopped in front of a rather imposing door. Holmes knocked and the pair were quickly admitted by a pale, sallow creature who ushered them into the master’s study. Inside, Moriarty waited with Moran, his dark eyes boring into Watson as he greeted the men. “Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, now what was this little business venture you wished to tell me of?” His tone was jovial as he spoke, lilting softly over the trills and laterals of his speech, but his eyes remained eerily hard, sucking in light like a black hole.

“Yes,” Watson began, “I’ve got a man looking to start up a mine, but he needs help with the initial investment.” The lie was easy to tell; he did in fact know a man looking to purchase land on the African continent in order open a mine. He just didn’t plan on putting any of his money into it or accepting any from Moriarty.

Watson had continued to let his mouth run on about the prospect as Holmes scanned the room. The vampire hunter then settled his gaze upon Moran, noting his almost disquietingly pale eyes and the way his pale, sandy hair, nearly matched his pale complexion. His pupils were black pin pricks in his pale grey irises, making his eyes appear almost colorless, and his pale lips were set in a grimace, as though he smelled something sour. “—Of course,” Watson finished, “I understand completely if you don’t see this venture as suiting your current situation, and if that is the case, we’ll just be on our way.” He made like he was about to stand before Moriarty raised a hand and motioned him back down.

“I am deeply interested, Doctor. I’m curious if you and Holmes would care to discuss it over drinks in the parlor?” Moriarty said with an arch of his right eyebrow.

“That sounds like just the thing,” Holmes said with a smile, the kind Watson now recognized as his “charming smile.” Together the men rose to their feet and Moriarty led them from the study; Watson felt a tingle run up his spine as Moran watched him move from the room, his gaze boring a hole into the side of his head as he followed behind Holmes. He swallowed thickly as he felt the gentlest touch against his hand. They had been over their plan enough times, Watson had felt more prepared for today than he had for any part of his army duty, yet now that they were actually in the den of a vampire he felt his mind buzzing with the many, many possible gruesome outcomes.

Moriarty poured drinks when they reached the parlor, and Watson accepted his graciously, but refused to bring the glass to his lips. Instead, he leaned against the side of a chair as Holmes countered, anchoring himself near the fireplace and closer to Moran, who he saw as the more immediate threat. Watson placed his hand gently against his side where he had secreted the silver blade Holmes had given him a week previous. He inhaled deeply before forcing another cheery smile onto his face as he watched Moriarty watch him. His heart hammered in his chest.

“Now, Doctor,” Moriarty said with a drawl, “Let us get down to business.” He walked slowly over to where Watson stood, an amiable grin on his face, “I have a few thousand in capital that I am looking to invest before my marriage, and I’m sure some of it could make its way into your friend’s mine.”

“That’s would be splendid,” Watson said, “I’ll let him know that I’ve found an interested investor and get back to you with the prospects.” He shifted his weight then, gripping slightly at the place under his coat where Holmes had secreted the flask of holy water, and Moriarty went rigid, his near-black eyes focusing on the doctor as his lips pulled back, although whether in a snarl or smile Watson could not tell.

“Oh, Doctor Watson, I honestly did not think you would do something as stupid as this.” Moriarty’s hand shot out, gripping Watson by the neck and cutting off his air. “I admit I could tell something was off about your offer, but I expected you to know better than to go into a vampire’s den with so little to defend yourself with and only one compatriot.” His fingers tightened at Watson’s throat. “Moran, how are you handling the—?” he asked, turning back to face his man, and seeing Holmes holding a blade to the pale man’s throat, a wooden stake ready over Moran’s heart. “Ah, I see. I picked the wrong one.”

“You did indeed,” Holmes said, “Now release the good doctor, his face is starting to turn a funny color, and if he comes to further harm I’ll end Moran now.” Moriarty loosened his hold on Watson who quickly stepped back and wheezed as he felt his aching throat. “Are you alright, Watson?”

Watson nodded before coughing.

“Alright then, Mr. Moriarty, you’ve found us out, just as we found you out,” Holmes said, pressing the silver blade against Moran’s pale neck until he heard the flesh begin to burn. “You will go and sit down, and Watson will secure you. Then we will figure out what to do with the two of you.”

Moriarty did as ordered, gingerly setting himself on a chair to which Watson tied him, binding his wrists together and his ankles to the chair legs. “Now, Holmes,” Moriarty said, “Let’s not do anything rash.”

“I didn’t expect you to protect him so,” Holmes said. “It must just be the two of you then. Damn.”

At this, Moriarty smiled, “Oh, now why do you say that?” His dark gaze bored into Holmes.

“I believe I’ll be asking the questions. And it is just the pair of you; you’d have brought your third in if you thought we were at all a threat, which you obviously did.” Then, without another word he plunged the stake into Moran’s torso, the wound leaking blood as his pale visage shriveled. Moriarty released a feral howl as he pulled at his restraints, managing to free his hands before Watson could subdue him with his own silver dagger.

“You really did pick the wrong one,” Watson said, his voice still scratchy from being choked. The vampire glared in response.

“Now there’s just you, Moriarty. Just you and whoever is carrying out the killings in Whitechapel,” Holmes said.

Moriarty laughed. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, I am sorry to disappoint you, but the Whitechapel murders aren’t vampiric in origin. You humans have done a perfectly good job killing each other brutally over the millennia. Only the most deranged of my brethren kill in the… less discreet ways.”

“How can you be sure of that? Just because you and your man didn’t do it, how can you tell it isn’t another vampire?” Holmes had closed in, his face much closer to Moriarty’s than Watson was comfortable with.

“I have my ways, just as you do, Holmes.” He quirked his mouth to the side. “Now either kill me or get out, because I’m not going to play twenty questions with you anymore.”

“Just do it then, Holmes,” Watson said while glancing around the room, “End his miserable life so we can get out of here.”

“Not so fast, Watson, he knows something, I can see it in his face.” Holmes pulled his silver watch from his pocket and pressed it to Moriarty’s face. “You want the pain to stop you tell me what you know.”

Moriarty tilted his head and looked up into Holmes’s eyes, wild laughter bubbling out of this mouth. “You gave up your only bargaining chip too early, Mr. Holmes. You’ll not get anything else out of me.” He went silent then, lowering his gaze and staring straight ahead.

“Right then,” Holmes shifted his grip on the wooden stake, ready to stab it into the vampire’s heart, “Goodbye, Mr. Moriarty.” He swung his arm forward, but it was caught in the vice-like grip of a pale hand, thrown back as Moriarty snapped his bonds and with superhuman speed fled the room. Watson made to run after him. “Don’t! He’s long gone by now. No point in exhausting yourself over it.”

“What do we do now?” Watson crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against the door.

Holmes stowed his weapons inside his suit coat as he made his way over to the doctor. “Now we plan. We wait and find a way to draw Moriarty back out. He likely won’t go too far, but he’ll be lying low for a good while. Should be relatively safe at the Lestrades’ but I have precautions we’ll have to take nonetheless. Either way, we need to leave immediately, once we’ve burned the body.” He moved towards the withered corpse of Moran, gripping the ankles as he waited for Watson to join him.

“Burn the body?”

“Only way to properly dispose of a vampire. It’s possible Moriarty could have a way to revive him, but then, he likely would have taken the body with him had that been the case. Are you going to help me or not? Because I would very much like to get out of here.”

“Alright, I’m coming, I’m coming.” Watson grabbed the top end of Moran and together they carried it out the back door.

Soon after, they watched as it sizzled and cracked, the flames dancing over the bones, charring them to dust. Watson started, “So, Holmes—”

Only to be cut off by the vampire hunter. “Call me Sherlock. I think now that we’re this deeply involved in so life threatening a venture, we can use our Christian names, don’t you?”

Watson gave him an appraising look then. “Yes, I believe you are right… Sherlock. Do we leave now?”

“Yes, John, we do.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “But he’ll be back. We must be ready when he comes.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was my fun writing last semester when I was taking a horrible creative writing class that was killing my soul. It's was supposed to be much shorter, and then it got away from me. I'm considering expanding it into a multi-chapter fic, but I haven't written any more of it yet. But please comment and let me know if you want the rest of this story and it would probably prompt me to give it to you.


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